


Happiness Is A Warm Puppy

by jane_potter



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: F/M, Gen Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-04
Updated: 2009-03-04
Packaged: 2017-10-17 18:07:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/179717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jane_potter/pseuds/jane_potter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Whoever said you can't buy happiness forgot about puppies."<br/>-- Gene Hill</p><p>OR, the one where Bruce gets a puppy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happiness Is A Warm Puppy

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the title of Charles Schultz's first collection of Peanuts comics. Because... goddammit, 'cause I said so!

Rebecca had drunk _far_ too much champagne. At least, Bruce thought it was Rebecca; it might have been Ramona or Rachelle or something else close enough to Rachel that some smart gossip columnist would print an article about him trying to replace Rachel with another girl. Bruce didn't really care one way or another what inane gossip went around about him, although his carefully cultivated reputation-maintaining shtick was another matter entirely. The name didn't matter to him because the girls were for show and nothing more, as Rebecca was just about to find out.

Looking down at the armful of slurring, beaming blonde in his lap, all Bruce could think was, _She is_ so _drunk_.

It was a good thing and a bad thing. Good, because it made the brush-off at night easier. Bad, because when she sobered up in the morning, the hangover would make her feel twice as bad, and he would have to endure the painful morning-after call from yet another heartbroken girl, her voice cracked and hurt and bewildered as she asked what she'd done wrong, whispered that she was so sorry, so sorry for everything, sobbed as she begged for a second chance.

But what could Bruce do, really? It wasn't possible for him to say, "No, no, it's not you at all, there's nothing wrong with you or your body or your hair or any of it. It's me, it's all me, and I can't sleep with you because I can't take off my shirt, I have too many scars."

And then she would hide from the newspapers for a few days, and they would go nuts about the newest supermodel or heiress hanging off his arm, his grin betraying no memory of the last girl. When the reporters got around to finding the last girl for a comment on what it was like to date the Prince of Gotham, and what did she think of his new love interest, the invariable response would be that Bruce was great, a real romantic, and the sex was absolutely amazing. They all gave the same lie, too, completely independent of each other. What girl would say that she'd been dumped short of second base by the most notorious playboy in Gotham, who had a reputation for screwing anything with legs and sometimes more than one at once? Each thinking she was the only one he'd turned away, no girl would ever admit to it, while deep inside they might carry the hurt and self-doubt of Bruce's rejection for months, maybe even years.

Although there were rare occasions when Bruce actually enjoyed the things his false identity brought him, there were also times he genuinely hated it.

"Bruce," Rebecca crooned, stroking the side of his face adoringly. "Brucie, Brucie, Brucie. Such a sad face. What're you thinkin' about, hmm?"

"You," Bruce replied immediately, pulling her more snugly against him and leering as he added, "and the twins, of course."

Rebecca giggled drunkenly, throwing back her head and rubbing her breasts against his chest with outrageously overdone zeal. Bruce made himself laugh and buried his face in her cleavage, drawing a startled shriek of laughter from her.

"Oh, look, you're happy again," she slurred. The glass of champagne in her hand sloshed as she shifted clumsily, moving to straddle his thighs. The tight satin sheath of her dress rode up high, nearly to the apex of her legs, and she didn't appear to notice. Bruce leaned back, sinking into the deep leather couch and smirking up at Rebecca with enough perverse satisfaction to disguise his discomfort. "What am I gonna do with you, Bruce? Just _what_ \--" She took a deep breath and placed her free hand on his chest, caressing through the thin fabric of his dress shirt-- "--am I gonna _do_ with you?"

 _Here we go_.

"Nothing," he said softly, leer fading into regret. Bruce's smile belied his words as he gently took the champagne from her. He tipped the flute backwards and emptied it behind the couch without looking away from Rebecca, whose mouth had frozen in a surprised O. "I think we're done for tonight, and you need to be getting home. I'll have Alfred drive you, or I can call a different ride, if you'd like."

"But I wanna stay," she protested, grabbing uselessly for the flute. "Bruce, don't you wan' me to?"

If there was more to the question than what Rebecca had gotten out, Bruce didn't intend to let her finish. "No," he said quietly. With ease, he lifted her and stood gracefully in the same movement. The dumbstruck expression on Rebecca's face suggested that she hadn't managed to follow just how she'd ended up standing once more.

"But then you'll be sad again," Rebecca slurred, clinging to his arm and swaying. Bruce caught her as she started to tip too far over. "Brucie, what's wrong? I don't wan' you to be--"

"I'll be fine," he interrupted dismissively. "I think you need to be going now. I'll call," he added, flashing his signature careless grin. It had to be the most cliche line in existence, and yet it seemed to give so many girls enough of a shred of hope to get them to leave without breaking down completely. Bruce only felt more like an asshole every time he used it.

Still holding the empty champagne flute, dress twisted sideways, the elaborate twist of her hair coming down around tanned shoulders sleek with faint perspiration, Rebecca stood and stared at Bruce with her head tipped sideways, a faint frown on her face.

"Oh, shhh, Brucie," she said, her eyes sad and oddly sympathetic. "No, you won't." It was the most lucid thing she'd said all night, enough so that Bruce's grin faltered. "You'll be alone again and nobody's gonna be here to stop it 'cause you won' call. That's... it's so... _sad_."

Suddenly Rebecca beamed at him, looking giddily pleased with whatever thought she'd just had. "Here," she said, marching unsteadily over to the fireplace, where she'd set her enormous Gucci handbag on the hearth. Basking in the warmth of the fire, a little puppy snoozed inside, the one she'd been toting around all night, pampering at the restaurant and cosseting during the limo ride. She'd called it at least three different names. Now she bent over unsteadily, nearly falling down, and clumsily gathered the puppy into her arms. "Here, Brucie-- you should have Button!"

"Rebecca, I really don't think--"

"No, no, no, shh," she said airily, and arranged the dog in Bruce's arms before he could finish the protest, a joyfully tipsy glow on her face. "She's a real sweet dog, and everybody likes puppies, and she'll make you happy, Bruce, she really will, and I think _you_ should have her."

The last was said with total drunken conviction. Beaming like the entire world had just worked out to her satisfaction, Rebecca patted Bruce on the arm and wandered out of the room, swaying and full of the happy indifference of one too inebriated to know just how incapacitated she really was.

Bruce looked down at the ivory-curled puppy squirming in his arms, making little unhappy whimpers of sleepy confusion, and wondered what the hell had just happened.

Down the hall, he heard Rebecca's heels clattering away to nothing, and then, distantly, a murmur of voices that would be Alfred meeting her in the entrance hall. Finally, the door thumped shut. Bruce struggled to hang onto the puppy as it-- she?-- began to wake, voicing indignant yelps that gave Bruce the idea he was doing something wrong. He hurriedly tried to readjust his grip on the dog and nearly dropped her.

"Master Bruce, what on _earth_ are you--"

Alfred stopped in the doorway, his incredulous expression fading quickly back into the usual unruffled calm with which he accepted nearly everything, up to and including the sight of a bewildered Bruce Wayne with an armful of yapping, squirming puppy, lipstick on his collar and white fur all over the front of his suit.

"Ah. I see." With a cheerful smile, Alfred nodded firmly at Bruce and turned to leave.

"Alfred!" called Bruce desperately. Unable to figure out just what he was doing wrong, he finally settled for holding the dog out at arm's length, where at least she couldn't keep do any damage with her sharp little milk teeth. "What-- what do I do? Where are you going?"

"To find somewhere appropriate for your new dog to sleep, sir."

"I don't _have_ a dog," protested Bruce. Alfred raised an eyebrow at him, giving the puppy a pointed glance.

"Then perhaps you'd care to tell me what that is."

"She's a dog, but--"

And at that moment, Bruce felt the front of his suit turn warm as something wet trickled down his chest. He looked down in utter disbelief, then slowly back up at the puppy, which blinked at him sleepily, tail wagging.

"I believe she would be a he, Master Bruce," Alfred said blandly, and was already walking away so as to miss the sharp glare Bruce gave him. "I'll find a change of clothes for you as well, shall I?"

Bruce looked back at the puppy, eyes narrowed. Then it yawned, all pink gums and tiny white milk teeth and liquid brown eyes, and he couldn't help the softening of his expression. Still, the huge scar on his left bicep was still raw and red, an ugly reminder of exactly why he wasn't fond of dogs. _But a puppy, Bruce? A little handbag dog_?

"Alfred likes you," he told the puppy sternly, then quickly glanced down the hall to make sure Alfred was really gone. "But I am _not_ calling you Button."

The puppy whimpered and wiggled momentarily, his tail now beating frantically against Bruce's wrists. Finally, with a last glance around, Bruce sighed and gave in, drawing the puppy back against his chest in a bundle of warm fur and floppy paws, and as the dog's wet tongue lapped enthusiastically at his face and neck, Bruce allowed his face to scrunch up in real, honest delight at the first indiscriminate and genuine affection he'd been given in months.


End file.
